The Unity of Rings
by black-cape
Summary: [D&D/Planescape/Planescape: Torment] Thousands of years have passed since the githzerai and the githyanki overthrew the yoke of illithid slavery. Another successor of Queen Vlaakith assumed power over the Silver Void, whilst austere fortresses emerged from the Ever-Changing Chaos. Thousands of years have passed since the word 'freedom' caught fire of the Rising and burnt to ash.
1. First Ring: Façade

'We are no longer humans, Zerthimon.'

* * *

The Unity of Rings is one of the fundamental truths of the Planes. It speaks of events and processes that have no beginning and no end, the past that inevitably impacts the future, the gravity of decisions made. The Unity of Rings brings a sense of meaning, security, balance – as long as the circle doesn't become a trap with no way out.

'The Unity of Rings' follows the story of the githzerai and the githyanki from the perspective of both factions of the race; genre-wise, it's probably somewhere between dark fantasy and dystopia, and definitely closer to weird fiction than epic fantasy. It's divided into two timelines – contemporary and historical, the former based on Dak'kon's arc in Planescape: Torment and the latter focusing on Gith, Zerthimon and Vlaakith.

The other POV in the contemporary timeline is Aranai. Aranai, not Shandra. Or is it the other way round?

Also, in my world, Zaerith Menyar Ag-Gith doesn't exist. The githzerai need no gods or kings, and a god-king is just too much. On the other hand, Sha'sal Khou, a secret organization that wants to reunite the githzerai and the githyanki, exists as much as possible.

* * *

 **FIRST RING** • **FAÇADE**

* * *

Clouds were crowding in the limitless space. They floated in disarray, moving closer and further apart, scattering in all directions and once again fusing in a compact mass. Here and there they collapsed into gigantic vortices, great abysses shivering with flashes of lightning. Some of the clouds glided lazily until they gradually dispersed into nothingness, the other ones trundled on, gaining in speed, to transform into lumps of earth or suddenly burst with living fire.

Slivers, tongues, drops of matter carried from far and near were persistently hitting against a small, merely few-meter air bubble that was moving without haste in the very middle of the whirl.

He didn't want to waste his energy on a bigger or more elaborate cover. He gave up on marking out a continuous path, instead forming single stone plates beneath his feet. Despite everything, he remained calm. The signal that connected him with Shra'kt'lor was strengthening slowly but discernibly. The hazy silhouette of the city loomed far away, its contour sharpening, although an accidental planewalker could still see the distant shape only as a massive mountain suspended in emptiness. Yet Limbo was no domain of accidental planewalkers.

He had a long way to go before first lone pagodas emerged from behind the clouds. When he finally stood at the gates, his cover was infested with sparks; they circled over his head like troublesome insects, settling on the cloth of his coat.

The last stone plates fell into the abyss; he took the next step on stable ground. Armed guards greeted him with solemn bows and immediately closed the gate.

He slowly went along the circle path leading to the nearest inner gate. Every now and then, he stumbled upon guards patrolling the area – there were many more of them now than when he left the city. Single travellers were crossing the few portals that were permanently opened at the outskirts. His arrival didn't go unnoticed, either. Upon recognizing him, the guards would ask whether he needed any escort, if not for safety, then at least for comfort. He didn't.

Secular districts were still the most common ones in the circle inside the gate. For a while, he walked between rows of shops and stalls of a large street market, one of the few places in Shra'kt'lor where his presence didn't attract much interest. From there, he turned towards the stairs going upwards amidst densely clustered houses. The city was already falling asleep when he crossed the third gate. Only now he decided to lift his hood and swing his coat onto his shoulder, revealing the ceremonial armour beneath.

She quickly spotted him, although at first couldn't believe that it was her who would be so honoured. It struck her as odd that a high zerth wasn't accompanied by guards. Instead, he only exchanged a couple of words with the sentinels at the gate, and moved on. He was still clad in his long, worn-coloured travelling coat.

'Greetings, enlightened one.'

He turned towards her with a sudden movement, pulled from his thoughts. He seemed confused, as if trying to recall who he was even dealing with. She didn't manage to decipher whether he succeeded.

'Greetings, sword-wielder.'

'I am glad that your journey has successfully come to its end. Did the Unbroken Circle lead you to your purpose?'

'The Unbroken Circle _is_ the purpose,' he said without hesitation, as if it were indisputable. It crossed her mind that the wording she chose could have offended him, although his voice was still mild.

'Forgive me if my blade struck the air, enlightened one.'

'I believe that my journey brought me closer to my purpose.' They silently walked past the wall of the vast meditation building. ' _Know_ that I saw the ruins of Nirankar on my way. Not all stones have been reduced to dust. The spires of Nirankar will rise again above the sea of Limbo.'

Nirankar. So he did remember, after all. He did remember the day when she arrived here, half-dead, mourning the fall of the city. It meant something else, too – it was a long, exhausting journey. He had to spend entire days in the eye of the cyclone raging outside Shra'kt'lor, most likely not using portals. Nirankar wasn't, however, his destination. Finally – he clearly insisted on turning to a different subject.

'Such is my will, enlightened one. But I'm afraid it's but a spark amidst howling winds.'

'The Rising of the People was built on many ten-turnings of labour,' he quoted from memory. 'You must keep your faith, sword-wielder.'

'It means a lot to me. I am always a guest at Toryg's table here in Shra'kt'lor.' She pondered for a moment. 'Does the enemy still send scouts out there?'

'The githyanki are convinced they have already achieved their goal.' She suddenly noticed that the zerth's hand was resting on the pommel of his sword. Did it catch her attention only now or did he want this gesture to accentuate his last words? ' _Know_ that they will be looking for new goals.'

'The streets are filled with guards. Is that what falls shadow upon your thoughts? There is no safer place than Shra'kt'lor on this very plane.'

He stopped. She lifted her gaze and saw a row of lanterns, warmly emanating light, that hung above the wide door. She couldn't accompany him here. Three shadows – zerths or guards – were approaching them, coming from the temple.

'The teachings of the Unbroken Circle will survive the attacks of all elements the easier, the deeper we will fathom their nature. This element,' he made a short pause, 'we _know_ particularly well. Yet until this time, we need to be careful. The streets of Shra'kt'lor are no longer safe.'

She took a deep bow.

'Let the way of Zerthimon lead you, enlightened one.'

'Let it carry you to the truth of the Unbroken Circle, Shandra.'

She swiftly stepped away, fleetingly greeting three zerths that arrived at the door. She, too, sent Shandra away and called Aranai in her place.

So he did suspect that the attack would come. Did a hidden threat lie in his warning? He chose his words too carefully to use any of them at accident. But he couldn't know, he couldn't be sure. Otherwise, she wouldn't be walking the city's streets freely. For now, she could rule out the greatest danger. Or maybe he wanted to eliminate it in a different way, send her back to the ruins of Nirankar, throw in the twisted elemental vortex.

Ma'aradh. Ekatala. Nirankar. Three fortresses like three illithid scalps at the Liberator's belt. Ma'aradh wasn't even a city, merely a network of watch-towers joined together with fragile bridges swinging over an abyss. It was enough to cut them off and let the Plane itself take care of the rest. Ekatala was a truly intricate mirage – its Anarchs managed to subdue water and make it flow leisurely around the vast castle complex. That is, until Vlaakith's knights subdued the Anarchs. And the stormy current washed Ekatala away, reclaiming its rightful power over the Ever-Changing Chaos. Nirankar topped the peak of a colossal mountain like a crown. Long did the astral ships circle around, long did they look out for a fissure in the misty shield weaved over the city. Nirankar fought fiercely and never truly surrendered, yet the weakened handful of survivors decided to leave its desolate, jagged walls and escape to the nearby fortresses.

For Shandra, a freshly initiated zerth, the most evident direction was toward Shra'kt'lor.

Shra'kt'lor was different. Monumental. Its seven rings encircled an irregular rock block, in places almost completely hidden under the buildings. Each ring stood slightly higher than the previous one; inaccessible sanctuaries and command centres watched her from above, high towers glanced at her threateningly. The guards wouldn't let her go farther than past the third gate. For some time now, she's been only going in circles, wandering around monastic and residential districts, waiting for new orders from Tu'narath or any occasion to accompany one of the high zerths. Such as today's.

Aranai would regard it a wasted opportunity, but she decided to listen to Shandra first. Shandra could draw a lesson from every situation, read the real meaning between the lines; she knew so many parables that carried great and simple truths within. K'atzn'ii at the Gate, prompted Shandra with dignified confidence, and Aranai understood. If that zerth suspected something, then perhaps her guesses were reasonable as well. She smirked at herself. Maybe her path was actually leading somewhere. Although certainly not where Dak'kon, High Zerth of Shra'kt'lor, would wish.

Dak'kon lit up his room with an intricate constellation of candles arranged in the air. He reached out his gaze toward the nearest one and moved it closer to the low table. The fidgety flame curiously peeked over his shoulder at disorderly scattered scrolls and the stone circle put aside; it waited impatiently for Dak'kon to untie the ribbon ornamented with unfamiliar symbols and unroll the tattered-edged, yellowed parchment covered with elegant writing.

 _A Tale of Unity and Division_ , the title read. The author remained unknown.

Such a title could indicate a work of purely symbolic or philosophical character, although it was the historical arc that was to predominate its contents. The word "tale" suggested a familiar solemn tone of spiritual agitation, fluttering flags, clashing steel, characteristic of the chronicles that followed the events of the Rising. _A Tale_ was a relatively lengthy text; not only because it was written out on seven scrolls, yet also due to a wider take on the subject matter. Wider – not in itself, but in comparison to many other writings, like Yahara's Sermons or Khayim's Aphorisms.

Like The Unbroken Circle of Zerthimon.

It wasn't the only thing that made it different from other writings of the People. _A Tale of Unity and Division_ was a work never made a subject of study, ever missing in Shra'kt'lor's libraries, a work only to be found in few well-hidden fortresses of the Sha'sal Khou. _A Tale of Unity and Division_ was apocryphal. Non-canonical.

Forbidden.

Candlelight chased the shadow away from the corners of the parchment and reached deep inside the calligraphed letters, where Zerthimon – according to the traditional order – awaited his awakening.


	2. Second Ring: Premonition (I)

**SECOND RING** • **PREMONITION**

* * *

Upon his awakening, he would always wait for a while until his eyes adjusted to the surrounding darkness.

The premonition that the world was somehow supposed to be brighter would never leave him. On his way, he soaked up every possible source of light – fading bonfires where sleeping labourers huddled up for warmth, sparkling crystals, trembling blue sparks of glow-worms lurking for food, even fluorescent fungi clinging to cave walls. He passed through corridors after corridors, their bristling teeth dripping water – the maws of the monster that was about to devour him. In the end, it always devoured him. It tore the pathways of his thoughts and filled them with its own orders.

This time they brought several dozen husks. Barely a shift earlier, they gave their lives to their masters in a sacred ritual – they were easy to recognize by their characteristic attire, uniformly gray except for dried stains of blood. When he stepped in the fields, others were already taking care of the husks, burying them under handfuls of soil and carefully placing seeds and spores inside. Luminous spheres of light floating just above the ground, arranged in regular patterns, guarded their growth.

He knelt by the husk and suddenly flinched. Something was wrong, but he couldn't state what. The order was clear – he simply had to take a handful of soil and follow the others – and yet something he wasn't fully aware of plagued his mind and paralyzed his body. He lingered over the husk and focused on the flash of that thought.

He finally understood. That wasn't a husk. Its head wasn't opened, its indistinct features twisted with painful solace, motionless gaze of its eyes drowning in darkness. Slightly lower, that body's – that man's – fingers were tightened on the hilt of a long knife. The rest of the knife was stuck in his chest.

He slowly unclasped the man's cold fingers and put his arms along his body. Then, he grabbed the knife himself and carefully got it out, at first aiming to put it aside so it wouldn't get in the way of his work. Yet he hesitated. It was the first and most likely the last time when he held in his hand something that he would only see at a warrior's side; something that decided this man's fate. Something that put him out of his misery.

He grabbed the hem of his vast coat and hastily cleaned the blade of blood. Smooth metal immediately soaked up nearby sparks of light. On its surface, a half-visible picture came into view, as if emerging from the distance, from the depths of darkness. It was a face, similar to those floating by. Yet this one did not float by; it was stubbornly staring at him, wanting him to remember. Indeed, he remembered, even though memories usually brought him no solace. He remembered that there was something more than raising those burial mounds and sowing poisonous plants, that there was a place where faces weren't unfamiliar and indifferent. He remembered that the man staring at him was a servant of Arlathii Twice-Deceased. And that his name was Zerthimon.

He lowered the blade and anxiously looked behind him. The work in the fields was passing slowly as usual, but he might have drawn the guards' attention. He was certain that their impenetrable minds recorded his every move. He wasn't wrong. A pair of dark, shining eyes looking out from behind the tangle of tentacles met his gaze. A moment later, a powerful blow struck him down to the ground.

When he opened his eyes, he noticed with horror that he found himself face to face with this unknown dead warrior. How far from death was he himself? How many more blows was he to receive? He helplessly sank his nails into the ground. He knew that the sentinel didn't move a step, and the labourers didn't notice anything – or didn't wish to notice.

Slowly standing up, he got back to work, mechanically digging out lumps of soil underneath which the warrior's body gradually disappeared. Some part of him could still be saved. Without disrupting the monotonous rhythm of work, Zerthimon unnoticedly reached out for the knife and tucked it behind his ragged sash.

He didn't know how much time could have passed when the work finished. It was his exhaustion that made him know – sickening tiredness usually meant the end of the shift. Or was it the omnipotent sentinels who decided about it as well? With an effort, he stood up and, after the dizziness passed, looked around to find the path between the burial mounds.

He was standing amidst heaps of bodies.

* * *

She was standing amidst heaps of bodies.

They won the battle at a high cost – her unit was decimated. It still wasn't certain how great the losses were; the warriors that could still stand on their feet knelt by the wounded to examine if life didn't leak out of them completely. They would then leave them on the ground, close their eyelids and move on in resignation. Sometimes they would reach out for makeshift, hastily prepared dressings. Sometimes for daggers.

She looked at the arrows growing out from the bodies like ghastly flowers watered with blood. Favourite weapon of dryads, centaurs and the eladrin. They should have been trained in it before this expedition, but their masters only relied on blades and their own psychic attacks. After all, it didn't matter whose hands wielded the blade.

It wasn't her first expedition to Arborea. She had commanded several others before, leaving swathes of scorched ground in her wake. A part of her unit crossed this portal for the first time – for this part this expedition usually became the last. She found it difficult to recognize some of the faces. Perhaps she never even saw them until they were twisted by death. She looked at them in silence, listening to their silent lament.

Bodies of their adversaries were barely to be found; they only killed as a last resort. This time their goal was different – to capture as many as they could.

Her master ordered her, however, not to care about the lives of the dryads, who had proved to be utterly useless for their _purposes_. She wouldn't dare to delve into the nature of said purposes. Any mention of it overcame her with instinctive, almost primal fear. Centaurs would be difficult to capture either way. So that only left the eladrin. At least twenty of them sat tied in a small niche of a forest cave that served them as a camp and, along with her warriors, awaited the return to the underground, although much less impatiently. She wondered if she was going to be rewarded or punished for that; sometimes, it was hard to tell the difference. The masters were rarely satisfied, and their demands were constantly growing.

The tenth day of the expedition was coming to an end. Day – a word characteristic of Arborea, where time was measured by the sky burning with feverish blue and again bleeding into silent blackness. The change was slow, but she would always watch the sky with curiosity. Underground, there was no sky. There was no warm, fresh air filled with soothing rustle, buzzing, chirping and fluttering as if it were alive.

'Gith,' she heard the familiar voice behind her back. 'Let's go back to the camp. We won't save anyone else.'

'By Ilsensine, there are only half of us left,' she said grimly. 'I hope our master will soon announce the end of the expedition.'

She leaned over a warrior resting against a tree. He looked so calm, as if he was peacefully asleep; if it weren't for the arrow that pierced through his leg. With an effort, he lifted his eyelids and threw a glance at his dagger.

Gith took out her own knife. She cut off the arrowhead and locked her trembling fingers around the feathers, smearing them with blood. The warrior's eyes were dazed with pain. Vlaakith's eyes widened with horror.

'What are you doing?'

'I lost almost fifty men. This one can still be saved.'

'Gith, he can't even walk.'

'We will carry him back to the camp. Someone will dress his wounds there.'

'You know what the masters do to the heavily woun–'

Gith tightened her grip and pulled. She carefully put the arrow down on the ground and reached into her travelling bag for any remaining scraps of bandages. Vlaakith gave a heavy sigh, seeing how blood almost immediately soaked through several layers of the dressing. Suddenly, she closed her eyes, pressed her fingers to her temples and lightly nudged the commander's shoulder. With one accord, they both turned their heads in the same direction.

It was Vanthaonar. At least such was the verbal component of his name – its full sound was beyond the range of their perception. They didn't see him in the physical sense, of course, only felt a presence rising in their minds. His dark silhouette loomed against the background of the thicket; as soon as it took distinct shape, Gith knelt down on one knee and lowered her head. It brought some kind of relief not to be forced to look at this inhuman face, these monstrous eyes in whose gaze one could be caught as in a spider's web. Vlaakith followed her, but he didn't pay any attention to her. He would only ever speak to the commander. And yet she knew that he would pay attention if she did nothing.

When he approached them, Gith's fear vanished, giving way to blissful solace. Once again, everything was in the right place, as if the eternal, holy order of things was revealed before her. She was called to serve at powerful Vanthaonar's side, the only one chosen among hundred other blades. She was drowning in his cold, infinite aura, forgetting her name. Through his all-seeing eyes, she watched today's battle. Now she understood how great their victory was, she was grateful to the heroes that gave life to their cause and trembled with fury at the very thought of the cruel eladrin. Having fixed her imperfect, broken memories, Vanthaonar raised his hand over her head and took a draught of psionic energy.

Vlaakith dared to take a glance. She was so close and yet entirely beyond his reach. From the outside, it looked horrifying – the commander was holding her head while tiny flashes of lightning were flickering in the air under their master's fingers. And yet – how much she desired to be in her place, if only to touch a scrap of his robes. When he went away, she grabbed Gith, who was shakily standing up, and passed her a waterskin.

They raised the half-conscious warrior up from the ground and, holding him on their shoulders, slowly headed to the camp.

Even such a modest substitute of the underground gave her a feeling of security. Gith quickly passed by the niche where they kept the captives, as if to completely forget that it existed. She sat by the fire, joining her warriors. Many of them rested, naively believing that the warm Arborean night would heal their wounds. Some could never heal. Not after the devastation wrought by previous expeditions. Especially the long journey through the labyrinths of Pandemonium, where their own shadows filled them with fear greater than hordes of beasts lurking in the…

A jolt. Too strong for a regular telepathic signal. It was a cry for help, she suddenly realized, sinking her fingers into her temples.

'What's going on?,' Vlaakith's voice asked from the outside. But she wasn't capable of getting outside now.

She reached out for the hilt of her sword and with a mad plunge dashed out of the cave. She felt as if a dagger's blade pierced her but she could still run. Currents of impulses led her to the right direction through the bodies on the scorched ground. Interrupted impulses. Fading.

A moment later, she saw with her own eyes why the impulses weakened. The were drowned by a sudden stab of a knife, straight between the ribs. Again and again. Like the ones dealt by a distant shadow leaning over someone that lay on the ground.

'No,' she groaned almost inaudibly, falling to her knees. The signal pulsing in her head died down, as if it were never there. She felt blood filling her mouth. No, it was just a feeling, there was no blood. So she could scream.

The scream echoed, reaching its goal. The eladrin turned toward her, bloodstained knife in his hand. He didn't manage to parry the attack. Gith knocked the dagger from his loosening grip and struck the final blow. She threw herself ahead and fell to the wounded one's side. But he couldn't see her anymore.

She now saw him in a different way. His ferocious eyes suddenly became blank eyeballs of an animal, and what she had always called a face turned out to be four disgusting tentacles. Three. One of them was chopped off.

She felt dizzy, as if Arborean air rushed into her head. As if it were alive.

She pulled her head back and burst into hysterical laughter.

'By Great Ilsensine,' Vlaakith whispered behind her back.


End file.
